The late Victorian period was the age of science and industry, all sorts of inventions opening new possibilities for the improvement of humanity. With hitherto unimagined concepts becoming manifest almost daily, each fresh innovation sparked a multitude of visions similarly inclined toward a seemingly limitless future. Tempering this optimism, though, were reminders of the human propensity for being, well, human.
Jules Verne is famous for his tales of adventure in faraway lands, whether circling the globe in a breathtaking 80 days (based in fact) or exploring subterranean civilizations (mostly fanciful). This time, his frontiers are the realms beneath the vast oceans.
Our story begins in a New England dockside tavern where sailors tell of encounters with a terrible sea monster. Into this rough-and-ready community come three strangers—marine biologist Pierre Arronax, his valet Conseil and whaler/entrepreneur Ned Land—determined to track the elusive leviathan, albeit for different motives. No sooner does their ship put to sea than they are taken captive aboard their quarry, a self-sustaining vessel capable of underwater propulsion, equipped with prototypes of weapons and diving gear still used today, and commanded by the Prospero-like Captain Nemo. Is their host friend or foe, genius or madman, philanthropist or tyrant? More important, will our pilgrims ever be allowed to return home?
Twenty thousand leagues (measuring distance, not depth) is a long journey to make in Strawdog Theater's Hugan Hall, a performance space of 20 by 40 feet, including a permanent bar at one end and audience members tucked into the room's corners like so many clumps of seaweed. Clint Sheffer and Ann Sonnefield's adaptation of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is as fluid as its watery environment. This is because the replication relies chiefly on orchestrated movement by an eight-actor ensemble and a score of site-generated vocal and instrumental incidentals, the latter suggesting, at various points, raucous barroom ballads (sing along if you want), exotic isles harboring hostile natives and, of course, the wonders of the deep.
Every fantasy voyage requires an anchor—or, perhaps, a better analogy is a grappling-hook-to assist modern playgoers in suspension of their disbelief. With a few nods to fourth-wall dissonance ("We'll need a bigger boat," says one character, echoing another popular fish story), Mike Mroch's direction, um, immerses us in our milieu for the efficient, but never overhasty, 70 minutes during which Nemo exceeds the limits of his virtuous intentions by challenging nature itself, thus bringing upon himself the fate of all heroes surrendering to hubris, and leaving us to contemplate the lesson conveyed by the survivors of the thrilling voyage.
